


The government is family

by PlainJane



Series: Doctors and detectives [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Broken Bond, F/M, Happy Ending, John is sort of a reluctant father, M/M, Mating Bond, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Miscarriage, Mourning, Mpreg, Parentlock, Reichenbach Feels, Sick baby, childbirth trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-27 05:17:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2680535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlainJane/pseuds/PlainJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has been left alone with a broken bond and a sick infant, and he isn't sure he can cope with being a father--especially not without Sherlock. Reluctantly, he turns to Sherlock's family for help, but there is more going on than there first appears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The government is family

**Author's Note:**

> Please note there is some mention of childbirth trauma and a miscarriage (not John's). And some mention of parental insecurity/possible post-partum depression. Take care of yourselves :)
> 
> Happy ending--I swear.

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“Dr. Watson is here to see you.”

Mycroft Holmes released a weary breath. “Thank you. Show him in.”

Mycroft stood behind his desk and waited for his brother’s bondmate to enter the room. His office was relatively innocuous—standard issue walnut wainscoting and an old oak desk. It was quite fitting for a bureaucrat of his stature. Or, rather, for the bureaucrat most people believed him to be. He took a few steps out onto the worn aubasson carpet and straightened his waistcoat.

The door opened and his assistant stepped aside to allow John Watson to enter ahead of her.

“Would you like some tea, John?” With the doctor’s curt nod, Mycroft smiled at his assistant. “That will be all for now, Penelope. Thank you.”

“Why am I here, Mycroft?” John asked pointedly, ignoring Mycroft’s gesture toward the guest chair in front of the desk. John stood near the door, fists clenched.

Mycroft could see the strain in his brother’s mate: the dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced and the lines around his mouth much deeper than they had been. His ever-present black jacket had tell-tale stains on the shoulder and his jeans were rumpled—he’d probably just pulled them on from the laundry pile. Hardly surprising, given…

“I wanted to enquire after the health of my nephew.”

“He’s fine,” John said shortly.

Mycroft sighed inwardly. It was going to be one of _those_ visits. “Kit was teething last I saw him.”

“Still is.”

“And is he in much pain?”

“No more than what any other infant goes through.”

“And how are you managing?”

John’s lip twitched. _Ah, finally!_

“I’m exhausted, if you really want to know,” John snapped. His voice was taut; it looked as though he was struggling to hold on to the last thread of his dignity. “He cries for hours at a time, though whether that’s just from the teething or more colic I don’t know. He only sleeps through the night about half the time. And I’m still spotting because my alpha died in front of me and left me with a broken bond that sent me into early labour.” John was breathing hard now. “Is that what you wanted to hear? Is that why you’ve been popping ‘round to visit? Is that the agenda for this little meeting? Because I really don’t have the time. I had to ask Mrs. Hudson to stay with the baby when your minions showed up to ‘invite’ me for a ride.”

“Oh, you could have brought him along.”

“Not a fucking chance.” John swallowed hard. “What. Do you. Want?”

Mycroft dropped ungracefully into his chair. He had underestimated how badly the broken bond would affect John, but he’d understood, generally, how difficult this would be for John and little Christopher.

So had Sherlock.

That last night—as they’d worked out the final details of their elaborate plan to take down Moriarty’s network—Mycroft had watched his little brother cry for the first time since he was a child. Mycroft had been helpless to ease his suffering. They both knew there was no other way to protect John and the baby and put an end to James Moriarty for good. They both knew there would be a cost.

“You made your feelings about my presence in your home very clear. However, I wanted to make one final attempt.” He looked John in the eye. “I would like to offer you and Christopher the comfort of family.”

John snorted. “Comfort? The Holmes family?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Have you _met_ you?”

“I realize it might be difficult to accept that we have your best interests at heart.”

“You’re fucking right it is.”

Mycroft dipped his chin at this. Of course, John still believed he was the one who’d fed Moriarty the information he’d needed to “destroy” Sherlock. They’d allowed John to believe it; it was a necessary (and now very inconvenient) fiction.

“I know you will never forgive me. Nor will anyone else. I don’t expect absolution,” Mycroft began tentatively. He folded his hands in his lap. “However, I would like to make amends. I cannot bring Sherlock back to you, but I can offer you and Christopher—”

“I do not believe I am hearing this,” Johns growled. He stalked to the desk, his body rigid with indignation. He pointed a finger right in Mycroft’s face, mere inches from his nose. “YOU do not EVER speak my mate’s name again. Not in my presence, which after today should be pretty easy because I’m telling you right now to stay the hell away from me and my son!”

“John, please,” Mycroft began. “There are things Kit needs. Things I can help to provide for him. Please allow me to do that.”

“No.”

The calm, unassailable façade of the soldier had returned. This man was a far cry from the mild-mannered doctor Mycroft had first met—funny how the same man could have such very different aspects. Though, Mycroft supposed, Dr. John Watson, the sex therapist and gender medicine specialist he had once approached for help with his baby brother, had been a man still trying to assimilate back into civilian life.

 _This_ John Watson was a man who’d found a reason never to fully assimilate, ever again.

Oh, he still treated a few special patients and was every inch the doctor, but John had been invited back to the battlefield by his bondmate, Sherlock Holmes. His PTSD had faded and he’d thrown himself headlong into the fray at Sherlock’s side.

John stepped back, falling unconsciously into parade rest, and stiffened his spine. “We’re done,” he said, his voice eerily calm. “If you or your people come to my door again, I’ll answer it with a weapon in my hand.”

He turned on his heel and marched back to the door. He threw it wide, allowing it to bounce off the wall, and stomped out of the room.

Mycroft slumped in his seat. He lifted a hand to his brow. “Well, little brother,” he said to the now-empty space. “This does leave us in a bit of pickle doesn’t it?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes in anticipation of the phone call he was now going to have to make.

“What on earth am I going to tell Mummy?”

_______________________________

_Five years ago_

“How?”

“Very simple: I didn’t tell you.”

“Sherlock,” John grumbled. “How can we have lived together for six months and only _now_ am I finding out that you have parents?”

“Everyone has parents, John,” Sherlock said innocently. “At least initially.”

“You know what I mean,” John sighed. “Why didn’t you say?”

Sherlock held John’s hand firmly, fingers entwined. He was feeling ever so slightly sentimental as he contemplated the simple titanium band around John’s left ring finger—an exact match for the one on his own hand. “Would it make you feel better if I told you that we are estranged?”

“Well, I had assumed,” John said, puzzled.

“Ah, well then, that’s the reason,” Sherlock nodded and turned his gaze out the taxi window. He gave a half-hearted wave to Mrs. Hudson, still standing on the pavement outside the register office with Lestrade, Molly, John’s receptionist, Lucy, and John’s old friend Dr. Stamford. “You should wave goodbye to our friends, John. They came all this way just to sit through what turned out to be a very tedious bonding ceremony.”

John frowned at him, but leaned forward in his seat to wave goodbye to their guests as the taxi pulled away. He settled into his seat once more and fixed his new, legally sanctioned bondmate with a sceptical glare. “You are a very gifted fibber when you choose to be. I know you didn’t really think I’d believe that.”

“No, not really.” Sherlock shrugged. “So much simpler than the truth, though.”

“And that is?”

“We simply don’t get on.”

“Oh, come on,” John scoffed. “Six months, and not a word?”

“Now, now,” Sherlock tsked. “You haven’t been with me every minute of every day since we met.”

“Of course not, but—”

“But why didn’t I introduce you to them?” Sherlock regarded their clasped hands once more. “Because they mean well, but the road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

“Did you…did you think they wouldn’t approve of me?”

“Of _you_? Why on earth would you think I was worried about what _they_ would think of _you_?” A deep crinkle appeared above Sherlock’s nose. “John, I didn’t want you to meet my parents because I didn’t want you to…you know.”

“No, love, I don’t know,” John prompted. “What were you afraid of?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes before looking at his new bondmate. “I didn’t want you to change your mind about me.”

John’s face softened. “I love you, you berk. I don’t care what your parents are like or how you get on. We’re a unit, you and I. For good.”

Sherlock relaxed a little. He nodded once, just a dip of the chin, before turning his attention back to their joined hands. “For good.”

John chuckled and leaned into Sherlock’s side, dropping his cheek to Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock revelled in the weight of John’s head against him, the subtle citrusy scent of him so close, the slightly too warm yet oddly addictive claustrophobia of their fingers twined tightly together. Sherlock wondered now how he had lived without these things.

“Were they pleased?” John asked. “About this? You and me?”

“Very,” Sherlock confirmed. “They’ve been trying to find me a mate since I presented. My mother assumed—as many alphas would—that I just needed an omega to sort me out.”

“Yeah, I know there are still some of the older generation who hold to that. My gran said the same thing to me when I presented as an omega: ‘Just find yourself a good alpha, Johnny. They’ll take care of you and you won’t have to worry about a thing.’”

“The world has changed considerably in the last 50 years.”

“Alphas don’t have to be butch arseholes who worry only about spreading their seed.”

“And omegas are no longer expected to be docile breeders who keep a nice home,” Sherlock concurred. “We’re very lucky to have been born when we were. I don’t suppose either of us would have done very well by those standards.”

“Not bloody likely,” John chuckled. “Can you imagine me in a frilly frock, trying new recipes and recovering the sofa cushions?”

Sherlock looked genuinely horrified. “Why on earth would anyone want to do _either_ of those things?”

John sat up with a grin. “Well, some people enjoy it, but they’re not all omegas. Or female betas. It’s nice that we no longer have to like things or behave in a particular way based on the bits we were born with. It was one of the things that drew me to gender medicine, actually; helping young people figure out who they are. Offering them options. Like you.”

“Yes,” Sherlock drawled, looking at John with a raised brow. “I genuinely believed I was asexual, and that being so somehow meant I was probably incapable of love as well. I thought I was better off.” He could feel a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Little did I know.”

“Of course, I hadn’t actually planned to offer _myself_ as an option when we met,” John mused.

“Lucky for me, then,” Sherlock said.

“Lucky for us both,” John amended. “So your parents—I’m meeting them today, is it?”

Sherlock sighed. It was all going to be so hopelessly boring. “Yes. I couldn’t talk them out of coming to the bonding celebration. Fortunately, they weren’t all that interested in the civil ceremony. My mother thinks it’s a terribly tacky modern affectation.”

“Oh, good,” John said. “And that was my idea, so…”

“So, nothing,” Sherlock finished firmly. “We both wanted the formality of the legal ceremony and that’s an end of it.”

John hummed, rubbing his thumb casually over Sherlock’s knuckles while he watched the city pass them by. “Tell me honestly, Sherlock: Are they going to like me?”

Sherlock regarded his short, sandy-haired, older mate with a critical eye. Handsome, of course. Clever. Kind. Brave. Loyal. Fiercely protective. “That was never in doubt, John. Believe me. You’ll understand soon enough.”

John lapsed into silence, clearly preoccupied with meeting his new in-laws. Sherlock wished he had more to offer by way of consolation, but unfortunately he had his own fears regarding this introduction. Which is precisely why he’d put it off as long as he had. If Mycroft hadn’t met him first, Sherlock would have hidden John Watson from his brother, too.

John was his. He may not deserve him, but he had him. He would not allow them to tarnish that.

They arrived at his brother’s London home a few minutes later. Sherlock had always hated the place, but John Watson had changed all that—it was the place where they’d first mated, and where they’d decided to stay together. Suddenly the stuffy furnishings and pretentious affectations (a suit of armour, Mycroft? Really?) seemed far less offensive, particularly when he imagined his very attractive mate running about the place naked.

The caterers were still setting up and wait staff were gathered in the front hall for their instructions. Sherlock led John by the hand through the main entry and toward the small parlour.

Mycroft was waiting there, nursing a whiskey as he leaned against the fireplace facade.

“Ah, Sherlock, John. I see you’re running on time. That’s good, isn’t it?”

Sherlock watched the strange expression on John’s face at his brother’s insincerity. John was always so wonderful with Mycroft.

“I suppose it is,” John replied jauntily. “Though it looks like we’re early to the party.”

“Yes, well, I thought perhaps it would be best to dispense with the family introductions before the other guests arrived,” Mycroft said wearily. “If you’ll follow me; my parents are waiting in the conservatory.”

John nodded. He winked up at Sherlock and squeezed their joined hands. Sherlock could not help the smile on his face.

They entered the conservatory to find his parents waiting on a settee. His mother had the unflinching stare and confident demeanour of an alpha. She was a fairly tall woman, with mostly grey hair pulled back into a functional low ponytail. She was sturdier now, and still handsome, but she had been a stunning beauty in her youth.

His father was also tall, several inches above his alpha. He was fairly lean, too (Sherlock took after him in that), with wavy white hair, piercing eyes and a gentle smile. He stood and reached immediately for his son as Sherlock and John entered the room.

“Sherlock, my boy!” he said cheerfully. “Come here, son.”

Sherlock obliged his father, who had always been kindly and quite loving. He released John’s hand and turned to embrace his father.

“Dad,” Sherlock said gently. “How are you?”

“Well, very well,” the man replied, patting Sherlock’s cheek. “I’ve had that scan done since we last spoke. Turns out it was nothing after all.”

“I’m very glad to hear it,” Sherlock said. He turned his attention to where his mother was still perched on the edge of her seat. “And mother. How are you?”

Sherlock fidgeted as he noted her attention was focussed fully on John. She did not take her eyes from the good doctor as she answered her son. “I’m well. Hale and hearty. Very pleased to be here, of course. I can’t tell you how glad we are, Sherlock, that you’ve found yourself someone, when we…well, we were beginning to think—”

“Mrs. Holmes, Mr. Holmes,” John interrupted, stepping forward. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m John Watson. Well, John Watson-Holmes, now.”

“Margaret, please. And William.” Mrs. Holmes stood and reached for John’s hand. “Captain and doctor. Aren’t you precious?” she cooed. “You are quite my boy’s type, I have to tell you. Though we didn’t know at the time it was a type, all those soldier magazines he kept around.”

“Oh, god,” Sherlock groaned. He glared at his brother, who’d made a terribly satisfied gloating noise.

“And you know, we weren’t even a bit concerned about the age difference, were we dear?” she asked, directing this last to her omega. William Holmes shook his head dutifully. “No, we knew that our Sherlock could probably benefit from a little wisdom and a steady hand. He’s a bit of a handful, as I’m sure you’ve already gathered.”

“Oh, he’s—” John started.

Margaret tucked John’s hand into the crook of her elbow as she led him from the room. “I want to hear all about you and your family. Where do your people come from?”

Sherlock watched helplessly as his mother kidnapped his husband. John shot him a ‘rescue me’ look over one shoulder; all Sherlock could do was mouth, _I’m sorry._

“Come on, then, Sherlock,” William said amiably. “Why don’t you tell me all about the ceremony? I’d have loved to have gone, really, but your mother said it was best we left that to your friends.”

Sherlock took his father’s arm and followed along in his mother’s wake. It was going to be a very long afternoon.

_________________________________

_Now_

“Oh, god, what is it?” John cried as panic, fatigue and exasperation warred for pride of place. He stared down into the cot where his nearly six-month-old son, Christopher William, was sobbing inconsolably.

It was three a.m. John couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a decent night’s sleep, or a day free from worry. It was a nightmare. He loved his little boy so very much, but being a parent was every bit as much of a disaster as he’d feared it would be.

As omegas went, John knew he was an abject failure. Starting right from the horrible circumstances of his son’s birth, he’d failed to make his son feel safe or content. He was pants at being a father.

God, how he wished Sherlock were here so he could tell the arrogant alpha git, “I told you so.”

His throat closed at the memory of his dead mate. He forced a shuddering breath and reached down to gather his son into his arms. Kit clung to him, nestling his small face into John’s neck to seek the comfort of his omega parent’s scent.

The sobs settled somewhat to hiccoughing; John patted the infant’s back and let his cheek rest on the downy head.

Kit had Sherlock’s hair—a scattering of darkish waves on the top of his head—and John’s eyes. It was unnerving, feeling as ill-equipped as he did, to stare into his son’s face and see his own dark blue-greyish eyes staring back at him.

“There now,” he soothed, trying to sound more certain than he felt. “That’s better. Did you have a bad dream?”

He wished it were that simple. Truly he did. He feared it was far worse.

The meeting with Mycroft that afternoon had served to highlight his own inadequacy, but it had also made him more aware than ever that he was going to have to give in. For Kit’s sake. As much as he knew seeing Sherlock’s family again would twist the knife that had been buried beneath his ribs since the day Sherlock died, he could no longer deny that Mycroft was right.

There were things they could provide.

His child needed the presence of a family alpha. He knew that. He’d tried using items of Sherlock’s to provide the scenting their baby needed, but that was all fading now. It wasn’t enough anymore. Kit’s distress was becoming acute.

He wouldn’t allow Mycroft into his home, but there was another option. He would call them tomorrow.

____________________________

_Four years ago_

“Sherlock? I need you over here.”

Sherlock nodded at Lestrade and grudgingly left John with Donovan. He hated all the questions and hated even more leaving John alone and at her mercy.

It was a fairly open and shut case: a kidnapping that had resulted in a standoff. The police had been unwilling to advance, as the kidnapper had been threatening his young victim, but John and Sherlock had already found their way inside the building. Sherlock had never been prouder of his mate than he was at that moment—John had drawn and fired without a second thought. His aim was extraordinary, hitting the kidnapper right between the eyes. The man had died before he could do any harm to the boy in his grasp.

Sherlock knew, whatever happened, Lestrade would be able to make any potential charges against John disappear—or Mycroft would. Still, he disliked the feeling of leaving his mate in distress.

He turned and glanced at John over his shoulder; his doctor winked at him. Sherlock smiled back and continued on to the spot where Lestrade was speaking with the boy who had been kidnapped.

Sherlock watched the child with trepidation—they usually cried now. He wasn’t very good with the crying. The boy was 11 years old: ginger, brown eyes, freckles. He’d been seated on a gurney waiting at the back of the ambulance.

“Ah, Sherlock!” Lestrade said cheerfully. “Archie wants to have a word. He won’t let the EMTs get on with things until he does.”

“Mr. Holmes!” the boy said excitedly.

Sherlock smirked as the boy shrugged out of the shock blanket they’d wrapped around him. “Ah, yes…Archie, is it?”

“That’s right.” Archie beamed at him. “I can’t wait to tell everyone you’re the one that found me.”

Sherlock cocked his head in surprise. He was rarely ever surprised.

“My friends and me, we’ve read all your cases. Dr. Watson is…can you believe what he did?”

“Well, perhaps the less said about that—” Sherlock started, trying to avoid eye contact with a snickering DI Lestrade.

“I just can’t believe you came for me. It’s BRILLIANT!”

“Aren’t you…shouldn’t you be…upset?”

“Why? Oh, that. Well, yeah. I was pretty scared. Got some good bruises, too. But I’m okay now, though. I’ll probably cry when I see my mum,” Archie admitted, sniffing a little. “I’m all she’s got so…”

Sherlock regarded the boy with fascination. He’d never given children much thought. He’d always considered them something of a nuisance—even when he was one himself—but this boy was intriguing.

“So you enjoy my cases, the way Dr. Watson writes them?”

“Yeah!” Archie enthused. “It’s so clever, with all the science and stuff. I want to do some kind of science when I grow up.”

“Oh, well, good for you,” Sherlock praised, patting the boy’s head awkwardly. The child’s hair was soft. And he smelled a bit like anxiety, which gave Sherlock the most unnerving impulse to protect him. “Perhaps…perhaps some day when you’re feeling better you and your friends could come by Baker Street and see some of my experiments.”

“What experiments?”

Sherlock started at his mate’s voice at his side. John had managed to sneak up on him without his noticing; that never happened. John looked from Sherlock to the boy and back again, waiting for an explanation.

“Sherlock was just telling young Archie, here, that he could pop ‘round to 221B for a visit,” Lestrade interjected, looking far too pleased with himself.

“Oh, right,” John said cheerfully, smiling at the boy.

“Seems he’s a bit of a fan,” Lestrade continued.

“Yes, thank you, Lestrade. That’s quite enough,” Sherlock grumbled. He nodded at Archie as he tucked John’s hand into his own. “Take care of yourself, Archie, and your mum. We’ll talk soon, all right?”

Sherlock turned and dragged John away from the scene, well aware that his husband was staring at the side of his head. He stopped finally at Oxford Street and raised his arm for a taxi.

“What?”

“What was that?” John asked, sounding very amused.

“What was what?” Sherlock evaded. He stepped back as their cab pulled to a stop at the curb. He opened the door and held it for John.

“You were very kind to the kid,” John teased as he stepped into the car.

“It was nothing,” Sherlock said dismissively. He flopped onto the seat next to his mate and straightened his scarf.

“If you say so.”

“I was just…making an effort” Sherlock deflected with a wave of his hand. “You’ve always said I should.”

“Quite right,” John agreed happily, leaning into Sherlock’s side. “Thank you, love.”

_______________________

_Now_

“When did he call?” Mycroft said, sitting forward in his chair. He’d come in to his office at the Diogenes early that morning. He hadn’t expected his mother to ring him before 8 a.m.

 _“Half an hour ago,”_ Mrs. Holmes, replied. _“He sounded just terrible, Myc. Poor thing—he’s wrung out.”_

“I know,” Mycroft agreed. “I’ve checked the paediatrician’s records as well. Kit’s doctor is concerned about his upset—the interrupted sleep patterns and decreased appetite—and his height and weight. She’s been vaguely referencing ‘failure to thrive,’ and there are some unpleasant suspicions about John’s abilities as a parent. I fear that if we cannot help John with Kit’s health we may be facing a much more serious situation.”

_“Oh, no! No, we simply cannot allow that to happen! We have to help him; John is our family. If we don’t do this for him and for Kit, well you know Sherlock will never forgive any of us.”_

“Mummy!”

_“Oh, Mycroft, for goodness’ sake. I’m well aware I’m on your encrypted line!”_

Mycroft sighed heavily, and propped his elbows on his desk. “When are you going to see them?”

_“They’re coming to us this afternoon. I thought it best to have them here. There’s more of my scent about the place and Sherlock’s room upstairs…”_

“Yes, that’s wise,” Mycroft agreed. “Unfortunately, I’ve done all I can without making more of an enemy of John. Sherlock’s left plenty of money for them, and I’ve made sure John has unlimited access—though he is unaware that I have anything to do with it. And I helped Sherlock secure a long-term lease at Baker Street. This, though, is up to you.”

 _“I’m quite up to the task, Myc,”_ his mother assured him _. “And your father is excellent with babies.”_

“I remember,” Mycroft said with a faint smile. “Please keep me informed of Kit’s progress, and do let me know if you need anything.”

______________________________

_Two and a half years ago_

“Sherlock, oh, JESUS!”

Sherlock grinned like a fiend. He loved making his doctor shout. He thrust again, knowing full well that the tip of his cock was once more stroking over John’s spot. “Not quite.”

John was too far gone to appreciate the humour. He was writhing beneath Sherlock, knees pulled up and spread wide, tweaking at his own nipples as Sherlock impaled him. They’d had a lovely, lazy morning of foreplay, which ordinarily did not appeal to Sherlock. Today, though, it had seemed fitting…and felt fucking wonderful. John did marvellous things with his fingers while he sucked Sherlock’s prick. Sherlock had never considered the idea of being penetrated—it wasn’t something alphas were socialized to enjoy. Once John had introduced him to fingering, though, he’d been hopelessly hooked. It was one of the few sexual acts that he truly craved.

John was mewling now; Sherlock knew his mate was close to coming. He wrapped his long fingers around John’s cock and begun to pump in rhythm with his thrusts.

“Oh, god. Oh, Sherlock. Oh, love, I’m going to…come…going to---FUCK!!!!!!”

John’s body spasmed as he climaxed and shot ribbons of omega ejaculate over his belly and chest. His hole constricted around Sherlock’s cock.

“John—so good. So tight for me…” Sherlock moaned, managing a few more thrusts before reaching his own peak. He buried himself in John’s warm, wet sheath and filled him full of seed.

Seed that might, one day, begin to grow…

John’s fingers brushed Sherlock’s away from his oversensitive cock. Sherlock sagged then, easing himself down into John’s arms to meet his lover’s waiting kiss.

“Mmmmmmmm.” John rotated his hips to pull Sherlock’s still-pulsing cock tighter inside him.

“John, John, John…” Sherlock sighed, nuzzling kisses into the man’s neck. He eased John’s knees down and braced himself on his elbows so he could look down into John’s face. “You look beautiful.”

“What, sweaty and flushed?” John chuckled. He brushed a damp curl from Sherlock’s face.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered simply, pressing another gentle kiss to John’s lips. “You look radiant.”

“Well, that’s being in love for you,” John teased.

Sherlock kissed him again, lingering this time to taste the minty traces of John’s breath.

“Thank you for this,” John said softly, stroking over Sherlock’s back. “It’s been a lovely morning.”

“My pleasure,” Sherlock said. “Literally.”

John sighed his contentment—Sherlock knew he was not in any hurry to have Sherlock withdraw from his body. He’d learned that his John quite enjoyed feeling full for a little longer. And he quite liked the weight of Sherlock on top of him for a bit.

“So what do you have on this afternoon?” John asked.

“Oh, not much. Archie and his mate are coming over with Archie’s mum. He wants to show her the mould cultures they’ve been growing.”

“You certainly have been spending a lot of time with Archie over the last few months. You’ve become quite the mentor.”

“You needn’t sound so shocked,” Sherlock said, trying not to sound hurt.

“I’m not love, I promise,” John soothed. He rubbed a hand over Sherlock’s chest. “There are few things I would believe you incapable of. It’s just that I hadn’t realized you were interested in sharing your knowledge with youngsters.”

Sherlock considered this. “I don’t suppose I had realized it either,” he admitted honestly. “I’d never really spent any time with children before. Archie is quite an interesting boy. And his little beta friend, Ahmed, is not at all objectionable. They are both quite bright. Very interested in learning. I suppose I hadn’t really understood that children are far more curious about things than adults are. Therefore, less dull.”

John laughed softly. “Well, It’s quite charming. I’ve enjoyed having them around, and Archie’s mum. We’ve had some nice visits as well; she’s a lovely woman. She’s thanked me several times for allowing you to be an ‘alpha role model’ for the boys.”

“Is that what I’ve been doing?”

“I think so, love, yes.”

“Do you…?”

“Do I…what?”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Do you think I’m good at it?”

“Of course you are! The boys adore you.”

“Do you think I…that we…?”

“Sherlock, spit it out. What are you getting around to?”

Sherlock hesitated. “I just wondered if I might be one day be an alpha role model for someone else. A child of our own.”

John’s brow creased. He began to shift, jostling Sherlock free and rolling away until they were lying side by side. He stared at his mate with a very serious expression. Sherlock felt a flutter of panic.

“A baby.”

“Yes.”

“Our baby.”

“John…”

Sherlock’s panic began to take root. He’d been nurturing this idea for nearly two months, but he’d managed to prevent himself from forcing a conversation before he had fully prepared for the consequences of what he had just asked. Now, though, the look on John’s face was terrifying him.

“Where is this coming from?”

“I’ve never considered the idea of becoming a parent. I thought children were boring and messy and inconvenient.”

“Right on all counts,” John scoffed.

“But they are also fascinating,” Sherlock continued. “And our baby would be part you.”

John’s slightly worried expression softened slightly. “Sherlock…”

“I realize this is a lot to ask. I realize we had said we weren’t ready even to consider the idea, and might never be,” Sherlock shifted forward and reached for John’s hands. “I’m not asking you to make up your mind now. I understand what I’m asking you to consider.”

“Do you?” John asked, incredulous. “I’ll get fat and ungainly, Sherlock. I won’t be able to go on cases for months. I’ll develop small breasts to feed our child. I’ll likely be nauseated for the first trimester and have indigestion for the whole of the third. I’ll have mood swings. I’ll probably get stretch marks.” John stared at his hands.

Sherlock’s heart twisted in his chest at the worry etched on his mate’s features

“Most importantly—and this cannot be overstated—a tiny human being will be relying on the two of us for their very life! They will continue to need us for about _two decades._ At the very least.”

“John, I realize—”

“Do you?” John’s voice had gained an edge. Fear, perhaps. He didn’t sound angry. Sherlock knew Angry John, and this was not him.

John rolled to his back and shook his head. “Do you understand that you won’t be allowed to just get distracted and bugger off to do an experiment or chase a serial killer? That you won’t be able to keep toxic chemicals or body parts in the flat? That you will have to learn to be civil to headmasters and school counsellors and paediatricians? That you will have to turn your phone off and sit through school pageants and recitals? That you won’t be able to spend an entire advance cheque on bespoke suits because our child might need braces, or tutoring, or—god forbid—something more serious?”

“John, please…”

“Please, what? Say yes?” John sat up and turned to sit on the edge of the bed with his back to Sherlock. He hunched forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Because I don’t think I can do that. It’s not something I ever thought I would do.”

“I’m not asking you to say yes now.” Sherlock got up on his knees and scooted close to John’s back, wrapping an arm around his omega’s shoulders. “Don’t say anything. But will you…will you think about it?”

The silence was painful. Sherlock could hear every sound in the room as he waited for John’s reply: John’s old analogue alarm clock, the whisper of a breeze through the drapes over the open window, his own heartbeat.

Finally, John spoke. He wrapped a hand around Sherlock’s forearm where it crossed his chest. “If it means this much to you, I’ll think about it. If you promise me that you’ll think about all the ramifications.”

“I will,” Sherlock promised, pressing a kiss into John’s temple.

“And make some lists of things that will need to change around here.”

“I’ll start today.”

“And tell me you love me.”

“I love you, John Watson,” Sherlock said solemnly, burying his face in John’s neck and kissing their bond mark. “I love you with everything I am.”

___________________________________

_Now_

Margaret Holmes greeted John and Kit at the door. Her eyes were lined with worry, but she wore a benign smile—for the baby’s benefit, John had no doubt. Kit had only met his grandmother once before and was unlikely to respond well to disapproval or anger, even if it was directed only at his daddy.

“John,” Margaret said softly. She reached for Kit who, predictably, leaned back into his father’s chest. “Hello, Christopher, pet. I’m your grandmother. Would you like to come to me?”

Kit regarded her very solemnly, glancing around once to look at his daddy for some kind of reassurance. John smiled at him, willing himself to stay positive for his son’s sake. Margaret pressed her suit, grasping the baby under his arms and beginning to lift him away from John’s embrace. Kit went quietly, if not enthusiastically.

John watched as his son studied his grandmother at close quarters—his gaze and intensity were so like his father’s that John had to look away. Every time he saw the man he loved in their child, it felt as though his heart broke into at least two more pieces.

“Aren’t you a fine boy?” Margaret praised.

Kit cocked his head at her. He reached out and touched one chubby finger to the end of her nose.

“That’s my nose,” Margaret chuckled. “Where’s yours?” She waited a moment before touching her own index finger gently to Kit’s button nose. “There it is!”

Kit grinned at her—a great, pink, gummy affair with a little bit of the drool so much a part of their lives with the teething. Margaret smiled deeply at the boy and pressed a hand to his back to draw him closer.

John stiffened, waiting now for the moment that had prompted his visit. Kit dropped his head to his grandmother’s shoulder and turned his face toward her neck. John’s breath caught as he heard his son snuffling for his alpha grandmother’s scent…

There was a great gust of breath, almost as though Kit were sighing his relief. Within seconds, he was settled peacefully, thumb in his mouth, as he blinked at John.

John nearly fell to the ground. His eyes welled, in spite of himself. Margaret, to her credit, said nothing. She smiled at him kindly and gestured for him to follow her into the house.

In the cosy rear sitting room, Mr. Holmes—William—was waiting patiently with a crossword puzzle. He watched his wife approach with their grandson before nodding a greeting at John.

“Will,” Margaret whispered, not wanting to disrupt the baby. She eased herself down into a well-worn rocking chair by the fire. “Why don’t you take John upstairs to rest? I dare say he could use it, poor lamb.”

William set his book down and stood. He passed the seat where his alpha mate sat cradling their grandson. “Excellent idea.” He bent to press a kiss into his wife’s hair and smoothed a hand over the baby’s back.

“No. No, I’m fine,” John protested. He was relieved that Kit had the alpha pheromones he’d clearly been yearning for, but John was still a bit panicked by the idea of leaving him.

“Come on,” Will said, nudging John toward the door. “Best to get what you need while he does. Believe me, I know.”

With a last look over his shoulder, John allowed his father-in-law to direct him out towards the stairs.

“Don’t worry,” Will said gently. “I’ll come and fetch you when he’s ready to play. I remember how hard it was to be away from my boys when they were this age.”

John nodded dully, trudging up the narrow stairs. They followed along a corridor, finally coming to a stop outside a cheerful yellow and blue decorated guest room. John felt a swell of relief—he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to keep calm if he’d been led to Sherlock’s old room.

“I wouldn’t have put you in there,” William offered, somehow knowing exactly what John was thinking. A Holmes trait, perhaps. He patted John’s shoulder. “If it were me, I wouldn’t have been able to—well, anyway, this is a good bed and the quilt is warm. And I turned the heating on earlier, just in case. You rest now.”

John nodded. He shuffled into the room and dropped onto the edge of the bed. “William?”

His mate’s father turned back from where he’d been about to close the door behind him. “Hmmm?”

“Thank you,” John said, his voice thick.

“It’ll all turn out well,” William said gently. “Sleep now and I’ll make us some tea when you get up.”

_______________________

_Fourteen months ago_

“Stop fussing,” John snapped.

“Sorry.”

Sherlock sat back in his chair and clasped his hands in his lap. John had been very short-tempered of late. There was no value in provoking him.

“No, I’m sorry,” John sighed. He rubbed a weary hand over his brow. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m acting like a prick.”

“I know the last few weeks have been hard on you…”

“Lots of other people have trouble conceiving,” John replied. “That’s no reason to turn into a grumpy bastard.”

They’d been waiting for the doctor in her office for nearly twenty minutes. Sherlock had to admit he was flustered. They’d been trying to get pregnant for months, with no success. John had finally decided that they needed to consult an expert. They’d been poked and prodded—John more so than Sherlock—and tested to within an inch of their lives. Today they would learn the results.

The door snapped open and their fertility specialist, another old friend of John’s from Bart’s, breezed into the room.

“Hello, lads. How are we today?”

“Fine, thanks, Sylvia.”

“Dr. Awiti,” Sherlock greeted her. He took John’s hand, whether for John’s benefit or his own, he wasn’t sure.

The doctor sat and swung her chair around to face them, flipping open the file on the desk in front of her. “Well, I have some good news.”

John’s fingers tightened around his own; Sherlock tried to control the hope blooming in his belly.

“Yes?” John prompted.

She smiled at them both. “You’re both very healthy. There are no reasons why you can’t get pregnant.”

John exhaled loudly. “So the years of suppressant use…”

Sherlock frowned; John hadn’t even mentioned he was still worried about that.

Dr. Awiti shook her head. “Your hormones have balanced perfectly. Ovaries, fallopian tubes, uterus, vaginal opening—all in excellent condition. And Sherlock, your sperm count and motility are excellent.”

“Then why haven’t we conceived?” John asked. “I’ve been careful about my diet. We’ve started using optimal positions. My heats have been regular since I went off the suppressants—every two months like clockwork. Duration is normal…”

“John, John,” Dr. Awiti interrupted. “Sometimes these things just take a while.”

“How long is a while?” John asked, sounding a little panicked. “I’m not exactly getting any younger.”

“Your age is just fine,” Dr. Awiti said patiently. “Look, you need to relax and let this happen. Stop worrying about it and focus on the reasons you want to have this baby. Focus on each other. Focus on making love.”

Sherlock flushed as he gave his mate a sidelong glance. John nodded. He stood and thanked the doctor, not waiting for Sherlock as he strode from the office.

The ride home in the cab was tense and silent. Sherlock knew better than to start a conversation when John’s mouth was set in taut line. When they pulled up in front of the flat, John jumped out and left Sherlock to pay. By the time Sherlock reached the front door, John was already up in the flat.

Sherlock took his time on the stairs. His joy at learning that they were both healthy was now somewhat subdued. Clearly John still wasn’t happy. He just had to figure out why, and while he was exceptionally gifted at deduction, parsing human emotion still very often eluded him. He pushed the half-open door out of his way and stepped into the sitting room.

“John?”

“In here,” John called from the bedroom.

Sherlock crossed the kitchen and knocked on the closed bedroom door. “John?”

The door flew open and Sherlock found himself jerked by the scarf into the bedroom, the door slammed shut again behind him. John shoved him up against the wall and dragged the scarf out of the way, throwing it to the floor. He fastened his mouth to Sherlock’s neck in its place, ruthlessly sucking a love bite into the pale flesh.

“J-John?”

“Mmmmmmm,” John moaned against his throat. “God, you taste good. Best part about being unsuppressed—you, my alpha, smell and taste like heaven. I’d forgotten how much more intense it is. I get wet every time you come near me.”

John trailed kisses over Sherlock’s jaw, finally arriving at his lips. He nibbled daintily at Sherlock’s still somewhat puzzled pout, gently running his tongue over the seam.

“Are you going to kiss me back?” John asked, continuing to tease at Sherlock’s mouth.

“What are we doing?” Sherlock asked softly, arms still by his sides.

“Following doctor’s orders,” John murmured. He punctuated this with a deep, wet kiss.

Sherlock let his eyes flutter closed, and his hands settled on his omega’s hips. John was already half undressed—shirt, socks and shoes discarded in a pile on the floor. He rubbed his body against Sherlock’s and it felt divine.

“We’re going to concentrate on making love,” John whispered into Sherlock’s ear, licking at the lobe as he did.

Sherlock shuddered with want. The rising scent of his omega’s desire flipped a switch in his brain. His libido had been much more on than off since he’d gone off his suppressants, and he’d been pleasantly surprised to discover that he did not find it distressing. He loved John so much—the physical aspect of their relationship was just an extension of their profound connection.

“John…” Sherlock growled.

“There’s my alpha,” John purred. “I’ve been dying for you to bend me over this bed since Sylvia said the words. ‘Making love’ is a wonderful phrase, don’t you think?”

Sherlock had stopped listening. His alpha biology was fully engaged now, and he was consumed with getting at his mate’s naked flesh. He pressed his fingertips into John’s bared biceps as he bent his head to return the kiss. It was noisy, with lots of tongue—it made his body sing.

He pushed away from the wall, gently guiding John back toward the bed with roaming hands that skimmed over goose-pimpling skin. His mate was chilled. He needed to warm him. “Mine.”

“And you are all mine,” John echoed, digging his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and giving a gentle tug as he pulled Sherlock toward him for more kissing.

Sherlock was shedding his clothes as quickly as he could: coat, shirt, shoes and finally trousers. He was busy tugging his underwear over his thighs, licking impatiently at John’s bare belly while he was bent forward, when he realized his omega was still wearing trousers. “John…off. Please. Take them off.”

“Only if you promise to put that mouth to good use once I do.”

Sherlock could only moan his agreement to that. He dropped to his knees and attempted to help with John’s last clothing. Somehow, though, the button fly on John’s jeans was being particularly difficult. “Damn it!”

“Easy, now. I’ll get that,” John soothed. He dragged his fingers through Sherlock’s curls—something they both loved. He worked on his jeans and was soon tugging them off.

Sherlock eagerly participated in this by shoving the offending garment down over John’s legs and then repeating the procedure with his pants. He was face to face with John’s eager, red cock. He took the head into his mouth and suckled it noisily. John tasted so good.

Above him, John gasped, grabbing at Sherlock’s shoulders to remain upright. “Oh, Sherlock. Your mouth…fuck, fuck, fuck…”

Sherlock hummed his pleasure in his task, eagerly suckling the modest prick deeper into the heat of his mouth. He flicked his tongue over the surface as he bobbed in and out. John was panting, clearly trying hard not to thrust into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock took advantage of his mate’s distraction and pulled off, quickly burrowing beneath the stiff little cock to nuzzle into John’s perineum and suckle his small testicles.

John’s legs began to buckle. “Oh, god, Sherlock. Fuck me. Please, love. Now.”

Sherlock stood, recapturing John’s mouth. John for his part stretched up to wrap both arms around Sherlock’s neck and hold on tight. Sherlock slid one hand around to nestle between John’s cheeks.

John moaned and pushed back into Sherlock’s probing fingers. “Yes. Oh, yes, fuck me!”

Sherlock slipped two fingers inside John’s already dripping passage. John groaned, still clinging to Sherlock’s neck with his head resting against Sherlock’s cheek. He undulated as Sherlock finger fucked him.

“Are you ready for my cock?” Sherlock growled.

“Yes! Oh, fuck, yes.”

Sherlock kissed John once more and then removed his fingers. He turned his mate gently and bent him over the edge of the bed. John groaned into the duvet, fingers fisting into the fabric as Sherlock parted his legs, hitched up his hips and drove inside him.

“YES!”

Sherlock wiggled forward until his balls slapped against John’s bottom. He sighed with relief as his unformed knot disappeared inside his mate’s body. He withdrew slowly—oh, so slowly—making sure to nudge John’s spot on the way past. He let his cock pop free of the warm hole only to slam back inside his omega’s willing body.

“JESUS Sherlock! Harder. Fuck me harder!”

Sherlock pounded his mate’s arse relentlessly, slowing only occasionally to change the rhythm and ease himself back from the edge. After a while, he released John’s hips and stretched over his mate’s body. He twined their fingers together and mouthed at the back of John’s neck.

“Bite me, love,” John encouraged. “I’m yours—bite me.”

Sherlock dug his teeth into the flesh at John’s nape. John was not in heat, so the bite wouldn’t trigger submission, but it made John groan helplessly as he shot his load without ever being touched. He thrust against the bed, using the mattress beneath him for friction. Sherlock picked up his pace, beginning to sweat now with exertion.

“Going to breed you,” he mumbled into John’s shoulder. “Fill you up.”

John nodded, clutching Sherlock’s fingers between his own even more tightly. Sherlock’s hips stuttered and he thrust once more before collapsing into John’s body, spent.

Sherlock had no idea how long they stayed in that position before John finally started grunting that he was getting too heavy. Reluctantly, Sherlock withdrew, watching with inappropriate satisfaction as his load dribbled from John’s hole.

John watched over his shoulder and chuckled. “Don’t get too excited,” he warned gently. “Remember—no babies until I’m in heat. This is just for fun.”

Sherlock rubbed his fingers through the sticky mess and attempted to push some of it back inside his mate’s body. “Fun is nice, too,” he mused.

“My heat starts next week,” John said softly. “Wednesday. You can play with my sloppy cunt all you like then, too. As long as you let me keep my hips elevated.”

Sherlock blushed a little. Hearing John use that word always made him feel a little light-headed. It was so primal. So earthy. He would never say it—he didn’t think he should—but he loved it when John did.

He waited for John to roll onto his back before settling in at his mate’s side. “Shower?”

John nodded, wrapping his arms around Sherlock. “I love you, you know.”

“And I love you.”

_____________________

_Now_

Kit was rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, loudly expressing his displeasure at the puréed vegetables Margaret was attempting to feed him. He was not as distressed as he had been at home each night—certainly better than he had been before John had started bringing him to see his alpha grandparent—but he was still out of sorts.

“I just don’t understand,” John said, throwing his hands up. He was standing to one side of the table with William. They had decided to let Margaret try feeding the baby today, as he’d been fussy. “I don’t know what else to do. The doctors have been useless; it’s been over two weeks and his family alpha barely makes an impression. I just—”

John fled, not waiting to see if anyone would follow. He managed to find his way to the washroom before the tears came. He braced himself against the sink as he fought to stifle the sobs that shook his body. His knuckles turned white where they gripped the porcelain.

Even as a returning, injured soldier—feeling lost and out of place—he had never felt this hopeless. His son was inconsolable and teetering on the edge of a health crisis, and there was nothing he could do to help.

There was a gentle tapping at the closed door. “John?”

It was William. John knew he wouldn’t be able to hide his distress from his very perceptive father-in-law. He gulped loudly, struggling to gain control of himself in order to reply. “Yes?”

“May I come in?”

John unlocked the door to the small en suite and took a step back to lean on the small bureau against the opposite wall. William shuffled in and closed the door behind him, leaning back against it. He extended his hand to John; there was a clean hanky in it.

John smiled weakly. He brushed at the tears on his face with the heel of his hand as he took the hanky with the other.

“Have a good blow,” William advised. “It’ll make you feel better. I promise.”

John chuckled, but humoured the older omega. He tried to clean up as best he could, but he knew his eyes would still be red and swollen. “Sorry, I just…I’m not managing very well with all of this.”

William nodded. “I daresay I’d be more worried about you if you were.”

“I have to be strong for Kit.”

“You are, and you have been,” William said. “But it’s perfectly all right to be sad. To be frightened.”

John felt the lump forming in his throat once more. “It’s just—I don’t think I can do this. Not without Sherlock. I never wanted to have kids, not really. I knew I’d be rubbish at it, and I am! My son is ill and miserably unhappy. God, he must hate me…”

“Kit doesn’t hate you,” William assured him. “Your son looks at you with absolute adoration.”

John shook his head. “I can’t give him what he needs. I don’t even know what it is he _does need_. I’m a doctor and I have no idea how to help him. I’m useless…” John trailed off as tears welled up once more. He allowed them to come, unashamed of the noise he was making. It hurt. It hurt so badly that he couldn’t imagine how he would survive.

Strong arms closed around him, and John shattered. He accepted the embrace gratefully, leaning into William’s familiar shape and burying his face in the comforting cardigan. The scent was all wrong, of course—omega, not alpha—but there was enough of Sherlock there that it felt like home. He clung to the older man and sobbed.

William let him cry until he had nothing left. He rubbed John’s back and whispered words of support. It had been so long since John had had a family that he’d forgotten how good it felt to have people to cling to when you needed them.

“Sorry,” he mumbled finally, gradually easing out of William’s arms. He gave his face another going over with the hanky. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Of course you should,” William replied firmly. “My goodness, John. What you have been through! I don’t know how you’ve managed this long. Most omegas in your place would have fallen to bits.”

“Well, I have a baby to care for, even though I’m doing a pretty crap job of it.”

“John, I’ve given birth to and raised two boys. I lost a third child in between them. Believe me: You are doing just fine. You and Kit are in an extraordinary situation.”

“Do you—do you think he knows?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you think Kit knows? That I didn’t really want him. Can they tell that sort of thing?”

“I suppose he could, if it were true,” William mused. He leaned back against the door, hands behind his back. “I’ve seen a great deal since you and Sherlock decided to try for a baby. I could tell you were nervous about it, but whatever your initial feelings might have been, well, the expression on your face when you told us you were pregnant could only be described as pure joy. Your pregnancy was difficult for you, but when Sher—” William hesitated, his brow furrowed. “When everything happened, I’ve never seen anyone fight so hard to stay alive and give their child a chance at survival. And the love you have shown him since? You may not have thought you would ever be a parent, but it’s evident to anyone with eyes that you are a good one.”

John sagged, covering his eyes with his hand. “Thank you. For that. Thank you.”

“Of course, son.”

William’s hand rested on John’s shoulder and John grasped gratefully at his wrist. They stood that way for a moment, until John could regain his composure. He didn’t want Kit to see him this way. He felt a strange fluttering of something at William calling him “son.” It was a small thing, really, but it made him feel stronger somehow.

“Shall we go out and see if Kit has finished his lunch?”

John nodded. “I suppose I’m going to have to take him to another specialist,” John sighed. “I just don’t understand why Margaret’s scent isn’t helping.”

William’s brow furrowed once more, and he looked as though he might say something. He changed his mind, though, nodding noncommittally and opening the door.

John puzzled over this as he moved to follow the man back to the kitchen.

___________________________

_Seven months ago_

“Sherlock, for god’s sake! Wait up!” John huffed.

Sherlock stopped dead and turned to watch his pregnant mate struggling to keep up. He flushed with embarrassment. “Sorry! I’m sorry, John. I didn’t mean to—are you all right?”

“Yes, fine,” John grumped, finally catching him up and stopping to place both hands on his hips. He took a couple of deep breaths. “You just have to remember that I am waddling for two people here. _This_ is why I’m not going out on cases anymore.”

“I know. You’re right. I need to take better care of you. We should have taken a cab.”

“No,” John said, his chin setting stubbornly. “I’m fine. I need to stay fit, so walking is good. Just not quite so fast, this time, yeah?”

“Of course,” Sherlock turned and offered John his elbow. He watched his mate as they strolled amicably in the direction of their favourite restaurant.

John’s appearance had altered very subtly with his pregnancy. Now, at nearly seven months, his belly had begun to really fill out, but he looked much the same as when they’d met. Only slightly more attractive, in Sherlock’s considered opinion.

He’d tried to explain it to Mycroft the day before, when his brother enquired after John’s health. But it was difficult to put into words how luminous John’s skin had become. How bright his eyes were. How the gentle roundness of his curves made him beautiful in a way Sherlock hadn’t expected.

Mycroft was brilliant, Sherlock could grudgingly admit, but he lacked imagination. He simply didn’t understand.

John smirked up at Sherlock. “Stop looking so pleased with yourself,” he chided.

“Me?”

“Yes, you,” John chuckled. He glanced at the other pedestrians; some of them were smiling at John and Sherlock as they took in John’s bump. “One would think you’d done something very impressive in knocking me up.”

“Not impressive,” Sherlock noted with a cocky flick of one eyebrow. “Just good.”

“More of you to go around?”

“More of _you_ to go around.” He looked down into John’s eyes with contentment. “I’m very proud of my contribution to that legacy.”

“Listen to you, getting all sentimental on me,” John teased, squeezing his arm. “Thought I was the one who was supposed to go all gooey.”

“Yes, that is surprising, isn’t it?” Sherlock said. “I am far more…sensitive…I suppose you could say, than I ever have been before. Seeing you like this, seeing our child inside you—I can admit I find myself moved by it.”

“Hmm, so I suppose that means you’ll be as gooey over the baby once it’s born,” John reasoned. “Which means I’ll be the disciplinarian.”

“I promise to do my part,” Sherlock offered solemnly.

“And not to get so focused while helping our child make a bicarbonate volcano that you forget to put paper down and end up ruining Mrs. Hudson’s lino?”

“That, too,” Sherlock confirmed. They had reached the front door of Angelo’s place. Sherlock opened the door with a flourish and stood back to let John in ahead of him. “After you, Dr. Watson.”

John pinched his bum as he passed. “That’s Dr. Watson- _Holmes_ , if you please,” he teased. “I’m a respectable _married_ pregnant omega.”

Sherlock was about to comment that he wasn’t sure if John would ever be completely respectable, and that he was quite okay with that, when Angelo spotted them.

“Sherlock! And John—look at you! You’re glowing!” He clapped his hands together. “That calls for a very special dessert, I think. Here, come on, I’ve got your table waiting.”

_______________________

_Now_

Mycroft strolled into his office, still studying the package of documents from his last meeting. He stopped abruptly only two steps into the room.

"John?" Mycroft addressed the figure sitting in his own chair.

"Where is he?"

Mycroft turned and closed his door, punching a code into the panel beside it. The door bolts slipped into place; Mycroft glanced up to where he knew the cameras would now be in blackout. He continued across the floor, approaching his own desk. "Where is who? Is Kit missing?"

"Don't," John warned. "Just don't." He took a deep breath through his nose. "Where is Sherlock?"

Mycroft felt his stomach clench. "John..." 

"Don't lie to me. Not now." 

"I don't know what you want me to say."

"Tell me where he is. I know he isn't dead," John started. "Or, rather, our son does."

Mycroft's mouth tightened, but he waited. It was clear John had more to say on the matter.

John stood and moved around the corner of Mycroft’s desk, tapping his fingertips along the edge as he did. “I should have worked it out sooner,” John said bitterly, shaking his head. “If I hadn’t nearly died giving birth and spent the last six months like a zombie trying to keep Kit alive, I probably would have.”

“I’m…sorry.”

“I don’t want to have to ask again,” John continued, his voice rough. He sat on the edge of the desk now, directly in front of the spot where Mycroft stood. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Where. Is. Sherlock?”

Mycroft allowed his head to droop, reaching up to rub his brow. “You have to believe that we had no idea the broken bond would affect you so badly. We couldn’t have predicted—”

“Save it. He can tell me. When I see him. When he sees his son.”

“John, it’s far too dangerous now…”

“Kit’s body knows his alpha parent is still alive. Whatever you did to trick my system into thinking Sherlock was dead, it didn’t work on the baby."

"We slowed his heart, to the point of stopping it. Sherlock was unconscious on the pavement, and for hours afterward. By the time he woke, you were out of immediate danger from the complications of the birth. To turn back then would have put you and the baby at risk..."

John held up a hand. "Kit’s craving Sherlock, Mycroft. I don’t know if he can go on much longer like this.”

“Are you certain?”

“At first, I thought it was just that he needed a family alpha.”

“We all assumed—”

“Yeah, well, it hasn’t worked. He settles for a few hours after being with Margaret, but by the time we get home, he’s just as miserable as before,” John swallowed around the lump in his throat. “I know your parents know, and I don’t blame them. It’s actually a bit of a relief to understand why they didn’t come to the funeral.”

“None of this was their idea.”

“I know that.”

“But why isn’t my mother’s scent working for Christopher? A family alpha should have been able to provide the needed pheromones.”

“When it became clear that wasn’t the case, I started doing some research into broken bond babies. That’s when I learned it was possible. There have been only five documented cases, but it is possible,” John said. “Pregnant omegas whose alphas were missing and presumed dead—injured badly enough or dead just long enough to cause a broken bond—but whose unborn babies somehow, miraculously, bypassed the process. All five were born within weeks of the broken bond instinctively knowing that something was missing. They KNEW their alpha parents were alive.”

Mycroft closed his eyes. _God, how could they have let this happen?_ “What became of them?”

“Two were fine once the alpha parent returned home. The other three were not so fortunate—their alpha parents didn’t come back in time. Two were left with permanent neurological damage. One died.”

“Oh, god.”

“Whatever the case is, whatever Sherlock’s doing, it ends now.” John’s voice cracked a little as he whispered, “I will not allow whatever this is to take my son from me.”

Mycroft looked horrified. “My, god, I would never—he’s my nephew!”

John stood and nodded, swiping at a tear on his cheek. “Where is he?”

“I’ll get him home. I swear to you. 24 hours at the very most.”

John nodded and squared his shoulders. “We’ll be waiting for your call.”

___________________

_Six months ago_

Sherlock watched from Bart’s rooftop as a cab arrived. His heart sank as a heavily pregnant omega struggled out of the car and stood.

“Oh, god…”

Sherlock punched the number on his phone and lifted it to his ear.

_“Hello?”_

“John.” He tried to keep his voice calm, though he knew John wouldn’t be fooled.

_“Sherlock, what’s wrong?”_

“Turn around and walk back the way you came now.”

_“No, I’m coming in.”_

Sherlock felt a flutter of panic. “Just do as I ask. Please.”

John turned back, a hand pressed to his belly. _“Where?”_

Sherlock waited until John had moved back behind the ambulance station. “Stop there.”

_“Sherlock?”_

“Okay, John I want you to remain calm and look up. I’m on the rooftop.”

_“Oh, god. Sherlock, what the hell…”_

The tears surprised Sherlock. He’d thought he would have to fake his fear and misery, but seeing John made him doubt the wisdom of their plan. How could he make John watch? Mycroft had promised him they’d have someone to look after John. After. There would be doctors to make sure he was all right. The broken bond would hurt him, but he would be better off in the long run, while Sherlock was…gone.

Still. This was his mate. The only person he had ever truly loved. It was heartless.

He shook his head and straightened his shoulders. No. It had to be done. Moriarty’s people had to believe it.

”I-I-I can’t come down, so we’ll just have to do it like this.”

 _“What’s going on?”_ John’s voice was edgy and anxious.

“An apology. It’s all true.”

_“Wh-what?”_

“Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty.”

Sherlock looked behind him at Jim’s body.

_“Why are you saying this?”_

_“_ I’m a fake,” Sherlock said tremulously, looking down at his mate.

“Sherlock ...

“The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly. Tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes.”

_“Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met…the first time we met, you knew all about me, right?”_

“Nobody could be that clever.” Sherlock sniffled, tears staining he cheeks. He would miss the birth of his child. He was leaving John alone. Pregnant and alone.

_“You could.”_

“I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you.” He laughed bitterly. “It’s a trick. Just a magic trick.”

John was shaking his head, he could see. _“No. All right, stop it now_.” John started walking again, moving toward the hospital.

“No! Stay _exactly_ where you are. Don’t move!” He reached instinctively for John, willing his omega to trust him.

John stopped, holding his own hand up in surrender. _“All right.”_

“Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?”

_“Do what?”_

“This phone call. It’s…it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they—leave a note?”

John shook his head and pulled the phone away for a moment. Sherlock knew it was sinking in _. Oh, god, John._

_“Leave a note when?”_

“Goodbye, John.”

“No. Don’t!”

Sherlock gazed down at John, breathing through his fear, praying to whatever gods might be listening that they might take care of the man he loved.

_Just keep him safe. Keep them both safe._

He dropped the phone and let himself fall. 

“SHERLOCK!”

John, in a daze, started moving toward the scene. He was slowed by a collision with a cyclist. A pair of hands appeared out of nowhere to steady him before he could topple over. He kept moving, his eyes fixed on the spot where Sherlock was lying…not moving…

“Sherl—” John pushed his way through the crowd. “No, let me through. Please. He’s my mate. He’s my alpha. Please!”

More hands steadied him as he fell to his knees, a sob caught in his chest.

“Jesus, no. God, no.”

And then it began: piercing, debilitating pain in his chest and abdomen.

John doubled over, vomiting and clutching at his spasming belly. He spat, groaning in pain. “Christ!” He struggled to breath, his chest constricting with every attempt. “What’s happening? What’s happening?!”

There was a gush of fluid from between his legs. John looked down and could not determine whether the blood was from Sherlock or his own body. 

“NO! Please no!”

“Sir, are you…oh, hell. We’ve got an omega in labour! I need another gurney!”

John slid to the pavement. The last thing he saw before everything went black was the bloodied face of the man he loved.

___________________

_Now_

Mycroft watched as John pressed his lips into Kit’s soft hair. Mycroft had only held Kit on a handful of occasions, but he recalled finding the sweet, milky, baby smell surprisingly pleasant. Strange.

The baby had finally dozed in his face-forward carrier, draped back over John’s chest, in the back of the black saloon Mycroft had sent for them. John was trying very hard not to give in to anxiety, but Mycroft knew he’d been on edge since the phone call, at 4 a.m., to let him know “the package you ordered has come in.”

John paced in Mycroft’s private office in the basement of his private club. Mycroft had had them delivered to the back door of the Diogenes and ushered into the building under cover of darkness. Secrecy was paramount, though John did not yet know why. Mycroft did not underestimate John Watson’s intelligence—he would know that it all had something to do with Jim Moriarty.

Mycroft was certain, though, that the case would be forgotten the moment his brother walked into the room.

Mycroft’s phone buzzed—Sherlock had arrived.

“Is that him?” John asked.

“Yes,” Mycroft answered, standing to join him in the centre of the room. “Before he comes in, I wanted to take a moment to… prepare you.”

“Prep—jesus, what’s wrong? Is he hurt? What’s happened?”

“John, stay calm,” Mycroft reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. He nodded meaningfully at the sleeping baby. “He’s injured, but not critically. I just wanted you to be aware that his appearance is…altered.”

“Altered? But…”

John’s attention was drawn back to the door as it pushed open once more. He held his breath; so did Mycroft.

But the scraggly creature that shuffled into the dimly lit space hardly looked like the man John had fallen in love with. Long, matted curls surrounded a bruised and bearded face. He was gaunt—he’d been half starved when Mycroft’s people found him. He was wearing a pair of grey track bottoms and a matching long-sleeved top. These were for the benefit of travel; Mycroft would not bring his brother home, let alone bring him to see his mourning mate, in what he’d been wearing before.

Sherlock’s head came up a little more. Mycroft watched, fascinated, as his brother and John looked at one another for the first time in six months. For all that Sherlock had changed, his eyes were unmistakable—crystal blue-green…and now filled with tears.

“Sherlock,” John whispered brokenly. “Oh, god, what have they done to you?”

A horrible sound emanated from Sherlock’s throat and he crossed to John in three long strides. He fell to his knees, both hands clutching at John’s hips, his face pressed into John’s thighs.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry….” he moaned.

Mycroft could tell John was choking back his own tears as Sherlock fell apart.

John reached down and gently smoothed over the shaggy curls. “Shhhhhh,” he soothed. “You’re home now.” A tiny sob escaped and John hiccoughed over it. “You came back to me. Oh, christ, I thought I’d lost you…”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Mycroft said quietly, feeling every inch the intruder. Sherlock’s head lifted and their eyes met, just for a moment. Sherlock nodded at his brother as Mycroft closed the door behind him.

Sherlock clung to John, soaking his omega’s clothing through with guilty tears. He would never be able to make it up to John or to their son. There was no hope of it. His aching, bruised body protested the movement, but he tightened his grip on his mate, digging his fingers into the denim of John’s jeans.

John fell to his knees, bringing them face to face. Sherlock couldn’t help himself. He kissed John, exactly as he’d dreamed of doing since the day he’d had to leave. It was tentative, and he was fully expecting John to hit him, to lash out for everything Sherlock had put him through.

Instead, John’s tear-filled eyes locked with his and John smiled. “Sherlock,” he whispered.

Sherlock cupped John’s face and kissed him again, tasting the salt of their combined tears. It was worshipful, wondering and desperate. He’d known that he would be able to come home one day—once Moriarty’s network had been dealt with—but he had accepted that he might never win John back. One couldn’t cause so much damage without scars.

They kissed and cried, almost missing the sounds when Kit made known his displeasure at being sandwiched between them. Sherlock gasped as he looked down between them and into the small face of his baby boy. Kit was staring at him with utter fascination.

“Christopher,” Sherlock murmured, stroking his thumb over the soft pink cheek. Kit’s unruly dark waves were standing on end and his face was flushed with sleep. “Hello.”

The baby studied him for ages. Finally, he frowned. He whined and struggled to get free of the carrier. John obliged him, loosing the straps and pulling him up and out.

“Kit, my precious boy, this is your papa,” he said, his voice gruff. “You go to him now.”

Sherlock took the baby from John, marvelling at how willingly the baby reached for him. Kit wasted no time, wrapping his chubby arms around Sherlock’s neck and pushing his little nose up against Sherlock’s scent gland.

John pressed his hand into his mouth to keep from crying out as the boy immediately settled. And fell into a deep sleep.

“Oh, god,” John groaned, slumping forward. “Oh, god. He’s going to be okay. I know it. He’s going to be okay.”

“John, I’m so sorry,” Sherlock started. His voice was shaky with emotion. “I’m so sorry for what happened, for what my actions caused—and Christopher! I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I would have tried to find another way—”

Sherlock stilled as John’s fingers pressed briefly against his lips.

“You and I are going to have a lot to talk about when you come home for good. And I am probably going to be resentful from time to time, though I’m sure you had a very good reason for what you did.” He finished this with a questioning look, waiting for Sherlock to confirm his assertion.

Sherlock nodded vehemently. “They would have killed you. They had to believe I was dead or they were going to kill you and the baby.”

John nodded, closing his eyes. “And I may shout once in a while, when I remember—well, it hasn’t been good, and it will take us all some time to recover from it. But once you’re home, we’ll start again. We’ll be okay.”

“I can…I can come home?”

“Of course you’ll come home,” John scowled at him. “Kit can’t live without you. And I won’t.”

Sherlock glanced down at the baby snuggled tightly to his chest. He could smell his own markers mingled in Kit’s scent. And John’s. And he had John’s eyes. “John, he’s beautiful.”

“Yeah, he is,” John agreed, rubbing over the sleeping baby’s back. “And right now, he needs you. I don’t know how long it will take for him to adjust, for his system to acclimate to you and being to function properly.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Sherlock insisted quickly. “I don’t care. I will stay as long as he needs me.”

John smiled. “What about Moriarty?”

“He’s dead.”

“And the rest?”

“Mycroft and I have a plan.”

“Of course you do.”

“It isn’t safe for me to come home, John. To Baker Street.”

“I know. Mycroft’s told me.” John pushed to his feet and reached down to help Sherlock up with the baby in his arms. “He’s prepared a safe house for us. We can leave once the sun goes down again. For today, we have his private apartment down here at our disposal.”

Sherlock stood, wincing with his injuries. He could see the concern on John’s face. “It’s all right. I’m fine.”

“I’ll decide that for myself, thanks,” John said. “I don’t know about you, but I’m knackered. What say we go to bed?”

“All of us?” Sherlock glanced at the baby.

“Yup. All together. Kit needs to be close to you, so he’ll sleep with us for a while.”

Sherlock gazed down at his mate—no longer his bondmate, at least not right now—and smiled. “I love you, John. I thought I understood that before I… _before_. But I had no idea. None.”

John tucked himself into Sherlock’s side for a moment. “I know what you mean.”

“Will you bond with me again? In time?”

“If you think you’re getting away now, you’re mad,” John chuckled.

“Is that a ‘Yes’?”

John stretched up and pressed a kiss into Sherlock’s cheek. “Unequivocally. Come on, you. Bed.” He steered them to the door, allowing Sherlock to lean on him a little and take the weight off his injured leg.

“And you are going to tell me everything,” John said.

“Of course.”

“And I may punch you.”

“Noted.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

________________________________________

_Eighteen months later_

“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!!!!”

John groaned, pulling the pillow over his head as the exuberant two-year old clambered up onto the bed beside him. “Sherlock!”

“What? I’m right here!”

John peered at his renewed bondmate from beneath the pillow. Sherlock was standing in the doorway to their bedroom, still in his dressing gown and carrying a steaming mug of coffee. “WHY are you right here? I thought I was going to get to sleep in today?”

“Ah. Yes. About that…”

“Oh, never mind,” John grumbled. He rolled over and gathered his son into his arms. “You, young man, are up very early for a Sunday morning.”

Kit giggled and patted John’s cheek. “My BIRTHDAY!!!”

John chuckled, thumbing the jam from Kit’s chin. “It most certainly is.”

“Cake!” Kit enthused, crawling over John to sit on his belly and pat his chest. “Cake, cake, cake.”

“Oh, well, Mycroft will be delighted to know his nephew has taken after him in one particular.” Sherlock said sarcastically.

John shot him a dirty look before returning his attention to their son. “Later, pet. Once gran and granddad and Uncle Mycroft come ‘round. All right?”

Kit thought about this for a moment and nodded. “Want An’y Pan’y.”

“How do we ask nicely?” John prompted.

“Please!” Kit crowed, looking very pleased with himself. He flopped forward to give John a messy kiss.

John hugged the boy tightly and tousled his hair. Kit's lovely curls had filled in and lightened in colour—they were now more of an auburn and had become so long that Kit looked like a Renaissance cherub. John was keen to give his son's hair a trim, but Sherlock objected...and so had been put in charge of the morning hair combing. John and William were taking bets as to how long that would last before Kit made his first visit to the barber.

“My sweet baby. All right, just because it’s a special day. Off you go, then. Papa will put it on for you.”

Sherlock reached out for Kit. “Come on, Kit. Let’s go down to Mrs. Hudson.”

“Miz Husn—yay!” Kit slipped off the edge of the bed and disappeared down the hall at full speed.

John cast his mate a puzzled look, but Sherlock merely winked at him and closed the door.

Nearly ten minutes later, Sherlock reappeared.

“So what’s going on?” John rolled to his side, propping his head on one hand. “Why’ve you taken Kit downstairs?”

“Two reasons, really,” Sherlock started. He closed the door behind him and dropped his dressing gown on the floor. “One: Mrs. H wants a visit with our son before his birthday party. She has a special present for him.”

“And two?”

Sherlock leered at John. “And two: I have a special present for you.”

“Oh, do you?” John scoffed, watching as his husband stripped at the side of the bed. “And you think you can just come in here, wake me up before you were supposed to, and take advantage of me?”

“Well, yes,” Sherlock said, puzzled. “Problem?”

John rolled his eyes, stretching forward to drag his naked alpha back into their bed. “Of course not. Silly man.”

Sherlock rolled them over until John was sprawled beneath him. He pressed his rising erection into John’s groin.

“In the interest of full disclosure,” John said, grinning. “I have morning breath.”

“Don’t care. Just had coffee.” Sherlock proved his point by claiming John’s lips.

At length, retreating only to breathe, John sighed happily. “I see your point.”

“Have I told you today how pleased I am that you’ve stopped wearing pyjamas since I got home?”

Sherlock settled between John’s thighs, hiking the omega’s thighs up and guiding John’s legs around his ribs. He slipped inside his mate’s body—still open and a little wet from their feverish coupling the night before…right after Kit had gone to bed.

“T-today?” John gasped, grinding his hips into Sherlock’s first gentle thrust. “No.”

“Well, I am,” Sherlock said solemnly, burying one hand in John’s hair to pull him close for another kiss.

“Mmmm. Good. M-me. Too.”

Sherlock slid out and back again, taking his time.

“Oh! That’s lovely,” John praised. He grabbed Sherlock’s bum and pulled him in tight.

“Your heat is close.”

“Probably Thursday,” John grunted between thrusts. “Give or take.”

“I’ll be in rut.”

“I know.”

Sherlock paused for a moment, focussing his attention on angling his cock just so…

“FUCK…how do you do that?” John groaned.

Sherlock kissed him. “I know what you need.”

“I need you here. For good,” John said, fingertips digging into Sherlock’s flesh as they rocked together. “So glad you’re home to stay.”

“Never going to leave again,” Sherlock breathed. “Promise.”

“Oh, Sherlock, I want…”

Sherlock picked up his pace, slapping his hips relentlessly against John’s bum. “I want you to come all over yourself,” he insisted.

John nodded, reaching for his cock and beginning to stroke. “Soon…soon…”

“Me…oh, god…me, too.”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“I want another baby.”

Sherlock’s eyes glazed over as his body pitched into bliss, his omega’s words triggering some kind of alpha response that brought on a hard, almost painful orgasm. Sherlock shouted John’s name, burying himself to the hilt.

John was moaning; Sherlock opened one eye to see his mate’s release all over his belly.

His belly.

Sherlock was panting, rearranging their limbs so he could—reverently—flatten his fingertips over the place where their son had grown.

John was smiling at him, an almost giddy expression. “Is that a yes?”

Sherlock captured John’s mouth with a whimper. He kissed him until they were both breathless. “Yes, yes, yes. I would do anything to make you happy. And this…oh, John. I’ll be here. I’ll do everything.”

John snorted. “Let’s not get too fanciful, hmmm?” he teased. “It’s enough to know that you’ll be by my side and we’ll deal with everything together. That’s how I want things to be from now on. We do this together or not at all.”

Sherlock nodded solemnly. “Together.”

John twined their fingers together and drew them to his lips. “For now though, we’d better go rescue Mrs. H and get Kit ready for the party before our family arrives.”

“Must you call them that?”

“Yes,” John insisted. He pulled himself out from under Sherlock and rolled off the bed. He reached for his robe. “I like them, in spite of everything. And Kit adores them.”

Sherlock’s smile was wistful. “He does, doesn’t he?”

“And he is a very bright, very intuitive little boy.”

“He is.”

John turned back to the bed, tying his robe belt. “Come on, lazy bones. Let’s get the day started. We have lots to look forward to.”


End file.
